Express Checkout

Sunday at eleven is the worst time to shop. Half the crowd is formal families on their way home from church, and the other half's composed of lazy bums who just woke up to empty refrigerators. Needless to say, I was in the second half.

Still wearing the sweats I had slept in, I managed to put my hair in a ponytail, pee, and wash my face before leaving the house. I had my mental grocery list, and we needed everything.

I stood in the produce section, eating a few grapes out of the bag. "$1.99 a pound is ridiculous anyway," I rationalized and waited for two chatty ladies to move out of the way.

A man behind me bumped my elbow while reaching for an onion. "Sorry," he mumbled, and I thought nothing of it. A little boy, next to no one, was scolded by his mother for being in the way.

Of course, the deli was busy, but I decided then and there not worry about time. As a gesture of goodwill toward all, I simply smiled at the counterman when an elderly couple cut in line, oblivious to the surrounding crowd.

Then he pulled up behind me, the man with the onion. I could see his cart and camouflage jacket in my peripheral vision. He wasn't too close, but I felt his breathing. I tucked a few stray pieces of hair behind my ear and became acutely aware that a leg of my sweats was stuck in the back of my sock. I curled my right toe around and pushed down the sock.

"Hmmm," rubbing my legs together felt good. I sensed his eyes on me. Unsure, I stood silently and sucked in my stomach for good measure. "What's up with this guy?" I wondered and tucked my left hand into my front sweatshirt pocket.

Men looked at me before I got married. I wasn't a huge flirt, but I appreciated attention. In the past three years, since I'd stopped dating, I was convinced my gold ring warned away men as effectively as garlic on vampires.

I stopped at a freezer for nothing particular but opened the glass door and inhaled the chill. Fish sticks, frozen shrimp. I looked over to my right. He was tall, and too thin. Dark hair, sharp features. I wouldn't say attractive, rough, like a biker or someone who worked with his hands.

I laughed at my suppositions. "Maybe he's rich and he cleans up real nice. Hell, look at me." I chastised myself for being so sloppy. In college, I used to put on make-up before going to the gym. Then in occurred to me that I hadn't looked at his hand. Ring or no ring? His left arm was closest.

Maybe that wasn't the first thing single people noticed. I'd been assuming I was wearing a scarlet letter, but maybe I was still getting scammed. "Good," I smiled with the thought. I was feeling horny.

I knew my husband was on the coach in front of the T.V. Maybe I could get some when I got home. Or, "even better idea," I schemed, "I could shower, put on some lingerie and then get a little." I hadn't done that in a while. "But," said a nagging voice, "You really should clean the shower while you're in there." That got me totally out of the mood.

I continued shopping, filling my head with silly little calculations. I was scanning a wall of Campbells when I felt the graze. It must have been the back of his hand, gently brushing my butt. "Whoa!" I thought, quickly turning around. That same man just kept walking. I watched him go. Boot-cut denim, muddy shoes. I could see the dark hair on the back of his neck were an electric razor had once clipped neatly.

My ass felt cold, and my face was hot. I could still feel the tingle. That could not have been an accident. This guy was some kind of pervert. Should I be angry or flattered? It wasn't a pinch or grab, not even the gentle open palm grasp from the dance floor of a club. It really could have been an accident. "Maybe it wasn't even his hand," I thought. But I knew it was.

I started walking, following his path. Mexican food, crackers, granola bars. I didn't see him in the aisle, but I noticed myself walking quicker. Was I trying to find him or get away? Candy, flowers, and videos. He was nowhere to be seen.

I ducked into the rest room and looked at myself in the mirror. Was it obvious I wasn't wearing a bra? My sweatshirt was thick, but my boobs are C cup. I dug in my purse and found only chapstick. I couldn't believe I was primping for a stranger. My life had gotten pretty lame. But shit, I hadn't felt my heart flutter like this for so long.

I tried to look cool as I surveyed the registers. Nope, nope, nope. Cleaning supplies, toilet paper, sandwich bags, magazines. Yes. There he was. I strained to see what was in his hand. They weren't bad hands, clean at least, and big.

I felt my boobs perk up as I walked closer. "Yes, come on, take one in your hand." I willed him telepathically. I could feel my nipples rubbing anxiously as I walked straight ahead. He didn't look up. He didn't look up. I walked right beside him. He smelled, like . . . magazines.

He could have turned into me, or stuck out his foot so I'd trip into his arms. Maybe I was making this whole thing up. I debated looking at some greeting cards. But, sensitive to the rebuff, I continued on. Dog food, shampoo, multi-vitamins.

I finished my shopping and pushed the cart full of bags to my car. "That was really strange," I thought. "Oh well," and as soon as I had dismissed the idea, I felt his presence behind me.

"I saw you looking at me," he said. His voice wasn't dirty. It was gentle, but matter-of-fact.

"Me?!" I cried, a little louder than necessary. "You're one to talk."

"What?" he asked. Oh, I was mad.

"You know." I said pointedly. I glared at him but kept walking to my car.

His eyebrows raised in mock innocence, and a sly smile crossed his face. He was better looking than I had first thought. Very tall. Looking up at him made me feel shy.

"You're a very attractive woman." Shit, that felt good. I fumbled with my key in the lock. Did I say thank you? I can't remember. "Can I have your number?"

"Well, that was it," I thought. This has all been fun and flattering, but, "I'm married." I said and instinctively raised my left hand. He took it. Whoa! As if resuscitating a heart attack patient, a current of electricity raged through my chest.

"In that case," he said. "Can I touch you right here?"

"What?" was all I could say.

He let go of my hand and reached up to my face. Gasp! What the. . .? His fingertips inked an erotic tattoo on my neck. I was so shocked. I felt needles penetrate. My heart was in my throat. It felt so good.

"You are driving me crazy." Crazy, yes, that word registered. "Can I kiss you?" Reality check.

The reflexes work. "I don't even know who you are." I could hear my voice shaking. My body was screaming yes, yes, take me now, kiss me, touch me, whatever you want.

"All the better," he said and I felt the pressure on the back of my head as he confidently pulled my face toward his. The kiss wasn't forceful; it was strong. It was passionate, but I flinched.

"I have to go," and pulled my mouth away. A forbidden hand flicked across my breasts "Aaa. . ." my whimper escaped. It was that graze, like in the store. His tiny teasing touch made me want to grind back against it like some wild fucking animal.

I jumped in the car; the door slam echoed my frustration. With one hand between the legs of my moist sweats, I sped home in pain.

Laden arms, hands and teeth full, I brought it all in with one trip. After ditching rustling bags on the counter, I frantically fucked my husband before putting the groceries away.

Next week, I think I'll shop at eleven again.